


all or nothing

by ftera



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Aromantic Castiel, Asexual Castiel, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 10:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4218621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ftera/pseuds/ftera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You say you're not in love with him because sometimes that feels too close to losing. But his eyes follow you as though you are the sun, and it's nice, you think, having someone adore you that much.</p><p>You wonder how long you've been lying to yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all or nothing

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be done for a challenge 5000 years ago but my artist never completed on time so I forgot about it. it's unedited and the pacing is probably crap and the ending leaves something to be desired but it's been sitting in my folder for about three months so I figured I may as well post it anyway.
> 
> (also the tags says asexual _and_ aromantic castiel and it could be argued that he's just aromantic but it's totally plausible trust me)
> 
> (we're also not going to talk about anything out of character shh)

You meet him at 7 am during a shared English Composition II class. At first you don't think he notices you, too absorbed in pouring a can of Monster in a giant coffee cup, but then he glances at you. He looks exhausted but his eyes are bright, the most vivid green you've ever seen and you try to ignore the twitching in your hands because you know you won't be able to recreate the color.

(You wonder, briefly, if it's possible.)

He tilts his cup up in mock salute, telling you, "I'm going to die," before downing the concoction in one go.

You don't look at him for the rest of the class but at one point you lean back in your seat and feel satisfaction when you realize he's looking at you.

(Not that you're paying attention or anything.)

 

* * *

"Ash!"

The shout is just barely heard through your headphones, but you still pull one out of your ear to find the source of the commotion. It's the kid from English, banging on a door only three rooms away from your own.

"This is getting ridiculous!" he continues. "I've been sleeping in the library for the past three days. I have a bed for a reason, asshole!"

There's no response beyond a loud moan echoing throughout the hallway. You frown, not bothering to try to find the source.

"Whatever," the kid huffs, gathering his things together. You consider for a few seconds as he walks past you, and then—

"Wait!"

He jumps and then turns around, seeming surprised to find you sitting on the floor.

When he doesn't say anything, you pat the spot next to you on the ground. "Hi."

Warily, he steps closer to you. "Hi," he returns, stopping a foot away from your legs.

"I know we aren't friends or anything, but you could wait it out with me if you want," you say, adjusting the laptop resting between your knees.

"Wait what out?"

You gesture to the door slightly to your left behind you. "If your roommate is doing what mine is, it might be a while, but I'd rather wait it out than sleep in the library. Those chairs are only comfortable for about five minutes and they leave the worst neck pain," you explain. He raises an eyebrow, so you pat the spot next to you again.

This time, he is a little more welcoming.

“Cas,” you tell him as he settles on the ground next you you.

“Huh?”

“My name. It’s Cas.”

He pulls his knees up to his chest. “Dean.”

You like the way it sounds. _Dean_. Something short, simple. “So, this your first time?” you question, glancing back at the room he’d been standing outside of before. His eyes follow the same path yours did, and he lets out a small laugh.

“Hell no. This is the fifth time this week.”

Absently, you begin to pick at the edges of your sweater. “That’s got to suck.”

He laughs again. You like the sound. “You’re telling me.”

Hesitantly, you offer, “If you ever need somewhere to sleep, I do have open place where you can sleep. It’s, uh, not a bed exactly but it’s a hell of a lot better than the library.”

A small smile plays on his lips. “Thanks,” Dean mutters, his cheeks reddening.

The door opens up behind you, and the both of you turn around to watch. A girl comes tumbling out of the room— you think you might’ve seen her in one of your classes before— smiling and blushing as she starts to move out the door. Your roommate is handing her back her phone, and you frown at the possibilities of late night conversations that you’ll probably end up hearing. It’s Balthazar’s typical pattern— find a girl, sleep with her, get her number, spend most of his time with her and then, when he’s decided he’s had enough, dump her.

Balthazar grins at the girl, who’s giggling now as she walks away. As soon as she’s out of sight, his eyes move down the wall to find you and Dean. “Who’s your friend?” he asks after a short pause, giving Dean an approving glance.

“Balth, this is Dean. Dean, this is Balthazar.” You turn back to your roommate. “Dean’s sleeping on our couch tonight because apparently his roommate is much more, if possible, inconsiderate than you are and pulls all nighters.”

You expect protest, but all he asks is, “Does he know by ‘couch’ you mean ‘bean bags’?”

“I don’t mind,” Dean speaks up, but his voice is soft with a sudden shyness. You wonder where it came from before pushing the thought away and heaving yourself up off the ground.

Getting Dean settled in takes a few minutes, but it doesn’t take long before the lights are out. Balthazar is asleep (no surprise) in seconds, his light snore filling the space.

You lay in the darkness for an hour more and wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into.

 

* * *

You’re not exactly sure how it happens, but somehow this becomes a routine. Whenever either or your roommates are busy, the two of you sit out in the hallway and wait for them to be finished. Usually it’s only Fridays and Saturdays, but sometimes Dean will knock on your door on a Monday or a Thursday or some other point in the week and ask if he can bunk in your room. Though you don’t see the appeal yourself, apparently Ash and his mullet are quite the catch.

On nights like these, the three of you relax against the bean bags and play video games. Or, at least, Balthazar and Dean do. You’re more than fine with watching, however creepy it sounds. Instead, you pretend not to look at Dean, pretend not to study his profile. His face is a little softer than what you’re used to looking at, a little rounder on the edges.

You think he’s kind of beautiful.

It’s a first.

 

* * *

“Ruby, I told you this has got to stop happening.”

From beside you, your best friend frowns. Her arm is looped around your neck haphazardly, obviously relying more on the weight of your arm around her waist. “Why, Cas,” she purrs, and you know she’s _really fucked up_ because she isn’t using a ridiculous nickname like she always does, “I thought you enjoyed these little outings we had.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, maybe two years ago. You know I didn’t want to do this anymore.”

Ruby frowns, using her free hand to touch your lip. “It’s not like I’m forcing a joint in your mouth, big boy,” she huffs. “I’m just asking for a nice, quiet escort back to my dorm from my most favorite, charming friend.”

When you stumble a little and almost bring the both of you to the ground, she giggles. “You’re not exactly being quiet.”

“I’m always quiet,” she protests.

“You’re also a compulsive liar.”

She opens her mouth to rebuke your statement, but then she leans more heavily against you, laughing a little. “God, Cas. I forgot how much fun you could be when I’m high. Why won’t you get high with me anymore?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Ruby, we haven’t gotten high together since senior year of high school. You _know_ why.”

Ruby comes to a halt, tugging you back against her dead weight. Her arms come around your body, her face burying into your neck. “I forget, sometimes,” she whispers. “Isn’t that fucked up? I do it because I’m scared not to do it and I want to stop because it scares the fuck out of me.”

It’s the warmest you’ve felt in a while. “We were so fucked up then,” she continues, sounding a little more aware.

“Yeah,” you agree. You were.

 

* * *

It’s 5:30 in the morning, and you’re going to _kill_ Dean Winchester.

Sure, you told him that he could stop by whenever, but this? Knocking on the door at fuck-off o’clock? Sleep is the only thing you look forward to these days, and Dean knows it.

Grumbling, you make your way to the door. Balthazar, the asshole, is still perfectly content sleeping through the noise. When you open the door, you open your mouth prepared to yell, but stop short when you see the state of your guest.

Dean is standing outside in the hallway with snot and tears streaming down his face. “I didn’t…” he starts, mumbling as he stumbles into you. “I didn’t know who else to go to.” He’s babbling in your ear, clutching the back of your shirt in his hands. You’re shocked, standing rigid in his sudden embrace, not sure of what’s going on. You snap out of it when you hear him choke out a sob.

“C’mon,” you say, taking small steps backward into your room. Somehow, you manage to get the both of you into your small bed. He curls into you as soon as you settle the blankets on top of your bodies.

When his rambling stops, you begin to sweep your hands down his back and across his shoulders and try to ignore the way he presses into your touch. “So what happened?” you prompt. You give yourself some credit when you only cringe a little as he sniffles in your neck— he’s probably getting snot all over your shirt.

“It’s my _dad_ ,” he finally gets out. “He was out drinking and—”

You feel like a monster for not feeling sympathetic.

“He’s not _dead_ ,” you manage to pull out of the slew of words he’s saying, “but it’s pretty bad and… I don’t think he’s going to make it. I just— _Cas_. I’m so fucking scared.”

“Shh,” you whisper. “It’s going to be fine.” You’re lying out of your ass. You can’t promise him anything, but you want to. When it appears that he isn’t going to say more, you begin to stroke his hair, trying to lull him into sleep.

When the whimpering and the sobs die down and you’re finally starting to fall back asleep, you hear a voice from the next bed over. “Is he okay?”

Forgetting Balthazar can’t see you, you shrug. “I don’t know.”

There’s a pause, and then: “Just be careful.”

You sit in the dark for a long time after that, wondering what he meant.

 

* * *

Two weeks later, the funeral is long and boring and tiring, but you still go anyway because Dean asked. By the time you get to his childhood home, he’s done with crying, putting a brave face on for his mom (who’s just about the kindest woman you’ve ever met) and his brother (you wish you had one).

They treat you fairly enough, considering the circumstances. You keep out of their way for the most part as they run around trying to get things arranged. When the day of the funeral comes around you stand next to Dean and offer him support with the brush of your arm against his.

(It takes three days for him to talk again. But you're patient.)

 

* * *

“So,” he starts, glancing over at you from where he’s lounging across your bed. “Summer is coming up soon.”

“Yeah,” you say, but it trails off at the end, sounding like a question. “What about it?”

“What are your plans for next year?”

You pause from your task of folding your shirt. “I was thinking about getting an apartment,” you tell him, hesitant. “But I don’t know if I should go out looking for roommates, or—”

“I’ll room with you.”

Surprised, you glance over at him, raising your eyebrow skeptically.

“I mean,” he continues, blushing now, “if you want me to.”

You picture it in your head. “Yeah,” you say. “Why not?”

 

* * *

The next time you notice it, you can’t quite comprehend what you’re seeing. It had been a mutual decision to go to Starbucks down the street, but once you’d gotten inside you’d immediately went to go get a seat, letting Dean know you wanted a caramel macchiato. Everything is perfectly fine until Dean gets up to the front of the line and—

He’s blushing, you realize. And it’s not as though you haven’t seen him blushing before, but this is entirely different. Even his body language is off— closed, reserved, nervous, the complete opposite of the boy who sat down next to you in English and downed a energy drink/coffee combo without a blink of an eye.

You want to wait it out, see what happens, but the people behind Dean are getting impatient and Dean can’t seem to lift his eyes from the counter. You make your way to the register, filing the information in the back of your head for later use.

 

* * *

"This is going to sound really embarrassing," he says later, after you point it out, "but I've never been... y'know. _Physical_. With anyone. Ever. It makes me nervous."

"You mean no form of intimacy ever?"

Dean hesitates. "There was one time," he allows, "that went up to some hands up some shirts but that was as far as it got." His face is almost as red as a tomato.

You raise an eyebrow at him, a gesture to tell him to get to the point. "Right," he mutters. "Anyway, I was hoping I could ask you a favor."

"What kind of favor?"

If possible, his face flushes even more. "I, well, you see— I know you're more... _sexual_ than I am, so really I was just wondering, maybe, if you could give me some pointers or something...?"

You shift your weight from one leg to the other. "You got a hot date you're trying to impress?"

"N-not really, technically, I just—" Dean stutters.

Grinning, you offer him your hand. "What if I give you one better?"

 

* * *

You sit between his legs and marvel over the fact that someone can be _this_ beautiful, and you wonder what the fuck he’s been doing waiting around for you. If he blushed a little less, if he spoke up a little more, if he _wanted_ a little more, he would be so far out of your league. If he knew any better, he would’ve avoided you like the plague you are.

Instead, you begin to rub your palms up and down his thighs. This is something you can give him— touch. It’s something you don’t admit to craving, something you used to confuse love with (which is why you just kept sleeping around and sleeping around and sleeping around), but you know better now. You can touch him and comfort him and teach him how to give a proper handjob, for fucks sake, and you tell yourself now that you won’t fuck him either but you think that’s probably a lost cause, because he’s looking up at you and he’s _glowing_ , absolutely fucking radiant, and you think it’s unfair because you know you don’t love him and you won’t be able to give him that.

He deserves to be loved. He deserves the big house and the big family and he deserves to be happy. You wonder how he could possibly see himself happy with you, of all people, but you keep stroking up and down his thighs. “That was good,” you tell him, a smile playing on your lips.

“Just good?” he pants out, flopping back against the bed in mock exasperation.

You wish you could kiss him.

(You wish you could love him.)

 

* * *

(You do end up fucking him a week later when you walk into his room without knocking and find him trying out the techniques you taught him. Dean blushes when you open the door, but you just look at him and look at him and look at him until—

Somewhere, he finds the confidence to ask, “Are you just going to stand there and watch or are you going to join me?”

And you’re not sure if it’s the confidence (he looks beautiful when he’s sure of himself) or something else (you don’t think about it), but you stalk towards his bed, throwing off articles of clothing as you go. You finish what he started, shoving his legs to the side as you crawl between them, tracing fingers across the smoothness of his stomach, his ass, his thighs. By the time you’re done prepping him, he’s gasping in your ear, moaning your name, tightening his fingers in your hair.

He’s gorgeous stretched out beneath you, eyes bright and wild and green green _green_. His skin is sticky with sweat and your bodies rub harshly against each other and you’re almost sure you hate it but his legs have taken place around your hips and his fingers are digging into your back and he’s mouthing at your jaw and it’s the most _touch_ you’ve felt in who knows how long.

You hate how he seems to so easily fit into your arms (just like he’s fit into your life) and you hate how soft his skin is and how much trust he places into you. You’ve forgotten how nice it feels to be held. You’ve forgotten how nice it feels to have someone want you, even when they know how (damaged bruised broken) you are.

When you collapse into each other sometime later, he strokes his nails lightly against your scalp and you bury your nose into his neck and pretend that you’re not crying.)

 

* * *

Jo glares at the two of you from over the counter.

You try to ignore her, telling yourself that, as Dean's friend, it's practically her job to hate you. Except she just keeps staring and staring and _staring_ and you're pretty sure she knows, somehow, what kind of person you are.

You stand up abruptly, interrupting Dean in the midst of his story of some girl in his calculus class. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," you tell him, purposefully not looking at Jo.

"Huh?" Dean mumbles, his hands pausing in their expressive talk. He waves you off. "Okay. Don't fall in."

"I'll try not to," you tell him. When you round the corner of the hallway leading to the bathroom, you stop and lean against the wall.

“He’s using you,” you hear her hiss almost right away, and though you can’t see them you can imagine her scowl in perfect detail.

"What?" Dean snaps, and you imagine him sitting straight up. "Why would you— ?"

Jo huffs. "Why are you denying it?"

"It's just _sex_."

"Yeah, and how often do you do that?"

"It's practically nothing, Jo. You're wasting your time."

In your mind, you can see, with perfect accuracy, the glare she is giving Dean. "It's definitely not nothing. I saw the way you just looked at him." There's a loud clang of something being set down. "You've had issues with this in the past. You're too open, too trusting. One day you're going to wake up next to that asshole and realize that he wants nothing to do with you. And it's going to hurt. You know why? Because you're so blindly, stupidly in love with him that you'd let him turn you into a welcome mat and walk all over you."

"You don't know anything." It sounds final. You hate that you've done that to him.

There's no response after that.

You come out a few beats later. Dean looks livid, clenching his hands and unclenching them. It's a familiar gesture you recognize in yourself.

He doesn't say anything when you sit down again. Jo is across the bar, serving some other customer. She glances at you once, frowns, and then goes back to her job.

You both leave two minutes later.

 

* * *

“I can’t love you,” you tell him when the weight of his sweaty body settles against your back. Maybe it’s not proper after-sex etiquette, but you have to be sure he understands.

But Dean’s hands find their way to your chest, hugging you back against him. “I didn’t have any illusions coming into this,” he says. “I’m just happy to get what you’re giving me.” Neither of you say anything after that, but you don’t need to.

You wonder what “this” is. You know what you’re getting out of this, the sated feeling in your bones that almost reminds you of being high (and that’s what Dean is— a drug. He’s the most beautiful high and the hardest crash, but you swore off drugs years ago and if this is the closest you can get to it, you’ll take it).

His body is a heater against your back that lulls you into sleep, and you pass out still wondering what the fuck he wants out of you.

 

* * *

Ruby offers you a cigarette because your hands are shaking. She holds it out to you with a determined, no bullshit expression on her face. “I quit,” you tell her, even though she already knows that.

With a huff, she says, “You also cut yourself off of every addictive thing the world has to offer all at once.”

“Not coffee,” you remind her, lifting up the cup you’re holding.

She shakes her head. “Yeah, and you drink five cups before noon. Take a fucking cigarette, it won’t kill you right now.” You hold her gaze for a few seconds before reaching out and taking it. After she lights it for you, you bring it up to your lips but can’t take the last step to inhale. You remember all the other drugs you used to take, the shaky withdraws you’d go through when you were too broke to get more, the last time when it had almost been too much, when it had almost been over.

You push the thought out of your head. Drugs aren't cigarettes, not exactly. Inhaling is a relief. You’d forgotten what it felt like to let go of your tight control, even if only for a couple of minutes.

“So how’s the boy toy?” Ruby asks, leaning back against the alley wall.

You blow out, shaking your head. “Not a boy toy.”

“Roomie?”

It's slightly more acceptable, but you know you won't get more than that. “He’s okay.” You shrug.

She rolls her eyes. “That sounds awfully nonchalant for a guy who’s fucking someone he swore he wouldn’t.”

There’s a possibility you get whiplash with how fast your head snaps to look over at her. “How the fuck do you even know about that?”

Ruby grins. “I know everything.” When you don’t say anything, her smile slips and she analyzes you. You hate when she does this, because no matter how hard you try hiding she can always read you like an open book. “But you care about him, don’t you.” It’s phrased like a statement, and you hate that even more.

“As much as I can, anyway.”

“And he knows, right?” she asks, leaning closer to you.

You fiddle with the cigarette still in your hand, inhaling around it again so you can stall a little bit. “Knows about what, in particular?” you question after a few beats of silence.

“Everything.” You raise an eyebrow. “Anything,” she allows.

“No,” you say.

For the first time in a long time she looks concerned, though it only lasts for a few seconds before she pushes it back behind her mask. You're practically perfect for each other— haughty indifference on the exterior but nothing but worrying and pain on the inside. It's too bad that your feelings for her have never gone past platonic. “And you’re okay with that?”

You shrug again. “Yes.”

“That’s such bullshit coming out of you, but I’ll let it slide." She brings her own cigarette up to her lips. "Is he alright with this?"

"With what?" you demand, gripping your coffee cup a little bit tighter.

With a snort, she lists off, "Any of it. Your messed up childhood. Your sexual history. Your inability to love. Take your pick." You hate that she's hitting all of your weak spots right on the head of the nail.

"He told me he didn't have any illusions going into it. He knows what to expect. Dean just..." you trail off, glancing at the ground.

"You're terrified," she says, leaning back against the building behind her.

You try laughing to deny it but it falls flat. "I wouldn't say _terrified_ , per se."

Her grin is wide and glorious. "You care about him, and that terrifies you. Admit it."

So you so.

 

* * *

When it happens, you wish you could take it all back.

Dean is angry, shouting and yelling and you wish it would stop because you're still not accustomed to raised voices. Like you have with others in the past, you let him get loud.

And then he reaches your breaking point. He's asking about relationships again and you can't go there, not with him, not with this boy who can make all the bad things go away.

(You can't help it when you snap— it's always been your defense mechanism to push others away.)

"Date night? This isn't a fucking romance novel, Dean."

He sputters, not expecting to get a rise from you. "Okay, no, but I thought going out to see a movie and stopping somewhere for dinner wouldn't be an issue!"

"I— it's _not_ , but it sure as hell feels like a lot. I just— I can't handle this right now." You start to turn away, but his voice pulls you back.

"You're such a prick, Cas. You're okay with every other aspect except dating. I thought being an asexual meant that you didn't have a sex drive." That stings, a little. You've always been so sure of yourself— or, at least, you've been good at putting up a front— and it's hurtful that he can't see that (especially when he can see through all the other bullshit you give out).

"I was trying to help you!" you point out.

He snorts, crossing his arms. "By what? Shoving your dick up my ass? Real fucking helpful."

"You said you wanted to learn."

"How to give a _handjob_ ," he reminds you, exasperated.

This is exhausting, frustrating. You want to grab him by the arms and shake some sense into him. "It would've eventually spun into sex anyway."

"And you knew that? Before any of it happened?"

You shrug. "I figured."

"And you just _let it happen_?"

"And what? You would've stopped it if you had known?"

"Yeah, I would've." He isn't looking at you, though, and you hate that you can see through him almost as easily as he seems to see through you.

"Really?"

"If I'd known that, I would've seen this coming, too. Fuck. I should've known. The second it happened I should've known. As soon as you confirmed what I already knew I should've packed my bags and left."

You don't ask what the confirmation is. You already know. "Why didn't you?"

"... I was hopeful. For a while. I wanted you to love me so bad it felt like I couldn't breathe sometimes." Dean's admission is a weakness, a softness, one that neither of you will confess later.

"I can't," you whisper.

His head snaps up. "Can't what?"

"I can't love you."

"Can't or won't?" he demands.

"Does it matter?" You wish he'd stop asking. He's only going to hurt himself. (It would be better than you hurting him, you reason, but it's probably too late for that.)

“Of course it fucking matters," he almost shouts. "I can deal with it if you can’t.”

“Well then, I won’t. I can’t love you. I won’t love you. It all means the same thing. I don’t _want_ to love you.”

“I think you just don’t want me to love you.”

You let out one short, humorless laugh. “Because you’re frustrating!”

“Because you don’t know how to get rid of me.”

It's the truth and you hate it. It’s the truth and you hate that he knows it. Dean huffs, irritated, before shaking his head and walking out of the room.

 

* * *

Dean leaves for a while. Just a few hours at most, but you get the message. He comes home at 2 in the morning after you ate a bowl of Ramen and laid down in bed. He's angry, you can tell, by the way he stomps around the apartment and how even microwaving something sounds loud.

A while later he passes by your room and you can imagine him hesitate outside your door. Dean scoffs, continuing down the hall to his own room.

He lasts three minutes before creeping into your room and slipping under your duvet cover. You don't open your eyes.

There's still distance there between you and him and you hate the fact that it bothers you. Hoping it seems like you're still sleep, you reach out for him, pulling him into your chest.

His hand falls on your arm. Neither of you say anything.

 

* * *

(You've been pretending for so long that you're not in love with him you think somewhere along the line you started to.)

* * *

"Asexual?" Ruby asks, and, really, you shouldn't be surprised that she's questioning it considering that you haven't exactly been celibate in your life, but Ruby has always known everything. In fact, you kind of feel satisfaction in catching her off guard.

"Yes. Asexual."

"Asexual as in little to no sexual attraction? Or a different type of asexual?"

Her eyes are still wide. It's pretty comical. "Yes, honeybee. That type of asexual."

She frowns. "But you've always... you know. Had a lot of sex. How?"

You shrug. It's the world's largest mystery— Castiel Novak, the asexual whore. "It's more of a touch thing," you try. "I mean, you know that. I'm a tactile person. We touch all the time." She, very kindly, doesn't point out that you two have slept together, but that's mostly been under the haze of drugs and good times. "It's... a craving, I guess?"

Ruby takes a step back from you, glancing at you from head to toe as if seeing you in a new light. You wonder if she's thinking about the nervous twitch you get in your hand when you're stressed, the pressure of holding back from punching something. You wonder if she's remembering the ugly, thick scar behind your ear, the one you got because your dad wanted to shave your hair ("I won't have no sissy little boy in my house, " his words still echo in your ear, because while he never hit you or hurt you he still got angry) and you'd dodged out of the way too late. You wonder if she's looking at the nick above your right eyebrow from when you'd tried to wrestle scissors away from your sister when you were ten and it backfired on you.

"It makes sense," she says after a while.

You blink at her. "It does?"

"Well, yeah," Ruby points out. "If you look at it from a psychiatrist's viewpoint, sure. A lot of cases where kids have been abused end up with the abusee either following their parents footsteps or with them thriving despite their past. It would make sense that you crave touch— it's an old desire from childhood, probably, and because of your lack of positive touch when you were young, it's transferred into adulthood."

"It wasn't really abuse," you point out to her.

"... No," she agrees after a few beats. "But it was isolation you didn't deserve."

Sometimes you forget that the girl you grew up with, the girl who you got high with, the girl you let in through some of your walls, is the smartest person you know.

 

* * *

“I don't really have a sob story,” you start one night. "Well, I guess everyone has a sob story, but I've never used it as an excuse. The thing is that my parents never really paid much attention to me and my sister. We were always on our own, y'know?"

Dean hums against your chest, keeping his cheek pressed against your skin.

"But we were never really given a proper childhood. We had to grow up by ourselves and deal with things on our own. When my sister started to hurt herself and I was the one who helped her through it. When I got into drugs, she was with me every step of the way. We did things on our own because our dad was a lazy asshole and my mom was exhausted with working almost all day.

"And then I reached puberty and people started becoming interested in me, and I liked it. The attention, the praise, the focus that was put on me. So I indulged in it. It was always nice but it wasn't enough, not really. And then I discovered sex. I don't think I ever really wanted it, really, but it got me that little bit closer to what I'd been looking for.

"I discovered drugs a little while after that, and then things became better. I was so fucking happy, all the time. The reputation I gained from that... I was called some pretty nasty shit in high school. And when I became friends with the school's two most well-known druggies, that was it. It was over. It took a lot of work to come back from that."

You look up at the ceiling. "It was easier to shut off emotions rather than embrace them. Sometimes I forget that what my life was then isn't what my life is now. It all just kind of blurs together and then, sometimes, something becomes clear and I remember that it isn’t what I thought it was." Your voice goes down to a whisper, and you glance down at the top of his head. "I'm so fucking scared of you sometimes," you admit.

He just squirms closer to your body because he already knows.

“I didn’t love you,” you tell him, and leave it at that.

He already knows.

 

* * *

There isn't a magical turning point. There isn't a day that you just wake up and decide on it. It happens slowly, gradually, in steps.

Dean starts with holding hands. You don't know how it happens, exactly, but eventually you'll realize that whenever you leave the house together his hand reaches for yours automatically, and instead of pushing him away it just causes your chest to ache.

He starts hugging you, too. You don't mind that one as much as you thought you would, but you suppose it's close enough to cuddling and you've always liked that.

There's no certain point where you can look back and pinpoint exactly when it happened, but you know and that's what matters.

(You love him. Sometimes you think you don't know what exactly that means or what it entails, but you know that if you'll ever get close to the feeling, this will be it. If loving him means holding his hand and caressing his skin and feeling that ball of warmth in your stomach, then you suppose that will have to do for you. You don't ask for much and you don't take more than what you need, you reason. You deserve this, you tell yourself.

You love him, you love him, you love him.)


End file.
